An ongoing process
by Song of Stillness
Summary: After an incident with his youngest son Vincent, Christophe is able to shed light on his past and his ideas on fatherhood and forgiveness.


**An on-going process**

_Scenario:_ After an incident with his youngest son Vincent, Christophe is able to shed light on his past and his ideas on fatherhood and forgiveness. A companion piece to 'She bids me listen,' and an off-shoot of _Refiner's fire_.

_Rated: _T

_Characters:_ Christophe (The Prince, after the transformation) and Vincent, his second eldest.

o0o

Lights flicker in an out of my vision, moving shadowed patterns over my face and making me drowsy. A voice seems to come as if from a great distance; a soft yet constantly bickering voice that I have somehow learnt to attune from my mind. I close my eyes for a moment to escape the world and as I come out of my reverie I realise with discomfort that it is unusually quiet. Cogsworth clears his throat and looks at me expectantly.

"I am sorry Cogsworth" I sigh, rubbing my temples, "What was your question...?"

But he only shifts in his seat and waves his long, pale fingers towards the door. "Sire... we seem to have a small problem..." Looking in the direction of his hands, I spy a little dark head against the wood panelling of the door.

"Vincent?" I question surprised. He looks up at me, cheeks flushed at being caught. "What are you doing here?"

He looks down, not able to hold my gaze. "Mama said you would be up all night... and I..."

I sigh, trying to hold back my frustration and open my mouth to say something but a pang comes to me as I recall exactly what my father would have said to me in a similar situation...

"Just a moment..." I sigh, turning from Cogsworth's disapproving face. Going to my child I squat down awkwardly to his level, noticing his cotton night gown with white embroidered sleeves and bare toes just visible, sticking out the bottom.

"Vincent...?" I question, waiting for his serious brown eyes to rest on mine. Sometimes they are so unerringly like my own Father's that my heart skips a beat as ice-cold memories flood through me and I have to remind myself that he is not anything like my father... he is my child. "What is it?"

He looks away, close to tears. He is a strange, silent one, my youngest, and I cannot pretend that I understand him fully.

He bites his lip. "I don't know..."

"You don't know...?"

I can hear Cogsworth's exasperated sigh in the background. "Sire... shouldn't we..." I turn and give him a scorching look and he slips out the door, muttering under his breath. Again, I look at my son.

"Vincent...?" I ask again, not understanding for the life of me, why he won't look at me.

"Must there be a reason Papa? I just wanted to be with you..."

I look at him in astonishment, at the hurt in his unusual brown eyes; not muddy but clear and transparent like a forest brook, at his wisdom far beyond his years.

"You are _always _spending time with Noel... I know that he is older than me, but..."

I can hear a hint of jealousy in the tone.

"It is late, my son..." I sigh, "Do you not wish to be up bright and early for the Yuletide festival tomorrow?"

"No... I wish to stay with you..."

"But I will be busy tomorrow, Vincent. You know this." I say pointedly, firmly.

He looks at me defiantly. "You _never_ want to spend time with me. Sometimes you do not even look at me! And I _hate_ you for it!"

I stand there stunned, in absolute silence as he rushes off in tears. My heart beats hard and fast as I stride to the door and call after him, but he's already disappeared down the corridor and out of sight. _Damn it!_

_Damn, damn, damn._

An incredible guilt washes over me. Surely I have not been that much of a neglectful parent...? Yes, it is true... sometimes I am prone to inaction, sometimes I am so afraid to repeat the same mistakes as my father, that I forget... I forget that he is a child... that it's not his fault he has the same eyes, exactly the same eyes as the man I hated and adored...

"_What more do you want from me?"_ I yell to no one in particular. My voice echoes back to me in the empty corridor and I see more than one servant scuttling out of sight. The portraits seem to glare disapprovingly back at me and I slam the door shut.

"What more do you want?" I slam my fists on the table, papers scattering left, right and centre. Surely I wouldn't have been allowed to be a parent if I was going to be so inept at it!

I sit there in the uncomfortable silence, every sound deafening, every tick from the mantelpiece clock, every whisper of wind against the battlements. Cogsworth, apparently having heard the emotional tirade does not reappear and I bury my head in my hands, smoothing the creases from my eyes and try to concentrate on the stack of papers in front of me. But nothing I read makes sense; it is as if Vincent's words have opened a floodgate of memories and regrets. I thought I had forgiven my father... Surely naming my own son after him and after _everything_ that I'd experienced with my own transformation...

I think of my father and am struck with the vivid memory of him leaving me alone in the snow... A memory or dream... I cannot tell, but it never failed to leave me with the most utter sense of abandonment and pain.

My eyes had trailed after his disappearing footsteps and I was frightened, although I did not know why...

I ran in the direction of his retreating shadow, my small feet sinking deep into his footprints. "Wait Papa... please, wait!"

But he kept on walking.

And still I ran after him, but he would not acknowledge me...

"_Please don't go Papa. Please..."_

And when I finally caught up to him, he had turned on me so furiously, I felt sick to my stomach.

"_Christophe, why are you here?"_

"_Because I..."_

"_But I don't want you here..."_

"_Please Papa, please let me come with you..."_

Even then, I could smell drink on his breath, and I should have _known_ better... But sometimes at the tender age of five, you wish for things beyond your understanding... He had looked at me for a moment with a look so black and empty, I had not understood it as a child, and then he unprised my hands from his arm and walked off, as if I did not exist, as if I was not worth anything...

I must have been only Vincent's age...I stood there and bit my lip till it bled.

Once, I questioned my mother about it, while walking with her over a powdered landscape, her red and blue embroidered sleeves, striking against the white snow.

"_Why does Father always hurt me?"_

She looked at me sharply for a moment, her eyes wide, before inquiring rather faintly. _"What do you mean Christophe? Where does he hurt you...?"_

I looked at her with injured eyes before covering my heart with my mittened hand. _"Here Mamma... he hurts me, here..."_

And indeed it is as if the greatest hurts are not bodily inflicted but occur somewhere in the mysterious regions of the heart. But now, as an adult and a father I know that look I had been unable to recognise as a child... despair... and inexplicable sadness... And throughout the long years I thought it had been my fault, but I now know he had an internal sickness... a madness that crept over him body and soul.

My unseeing gaze wanders across the white landscape, illuminated by the moon against an inky-black sky.

"_Father... I wish..."_

I close my eyes, close to tears, for what can I possibly wish for...? A father that I never really had...? For my lost innocence and childhood...? For the pain is still as profound as before the change.

"_I wish you were here... I wish I had known how to fix you..."_

And finally I close the heavy draperies, too tired and sad and full of memory to continue for the night. I rise to blow out the lamp when I see a dark head propped against the wood and the coal box. My heart startles in fear then apprehension as I recognise my son...

"Vincent?" I question hesitantly.

He blinks in confusion and then flinches away from me as if expecting to be chastised. I soften at the apprehension in his face and hold out my arms.

"Come here... you need to get at least some sleep if you're to go to the Yuletide festival tomorrow..."

He looks at me sleepily, eyes red and pleading. "Mama said you were staying up late and... I... I wanted to..." His face crumples as he sobs, "I don't really hate you Papa ..."

I lean in to wrap him in a tight embrace, kissing the soft hair at his temple. "I know. Surely, you must know that I love you equally to your brother and sister. _Never_ doubt that Vincent..."

I pull away and cup his little face in my hands. "Vincent... I am sorry for not trying hard enough and I would like to make amends... Is there anything you wish to ask of me...?"

He looks at me, surprised and then hides his face in my shoulder.

"Yes Papa..."

"What is it?"

"Can I ride with you tomorrow...?" He looks up at me shyly. And for a moment all I can do is stand there struck by this strange sense of duality. I am the small boy standing in the flickering light of his father's study, begging for acceptance, for approval. And as I glance at this mirror-image of myself, I realise that this is as much for _me_ as it is for my son. Here too, in these grace-filled eyes is my chance for redemption. Forgiveness, I realise, is sometimes an on-going process.

"Of course," I say rather hoarsely. He looks at me in confusion.

"Why are you crying?"

I laugh and kiss the corner of his mouth, breaking out of my momentary reverie. "Because you're my son and I love you..."

And just this once, he lets me pick him up. I sit him against me and wait until he falls asleep. I watch as the shadows play across his face. He has never looked so vulnerable or so young before. I gently touch his brow with the tips of my fingers...

"_See Father,"_ I whisper into the silence.

"_Can you see him...?"_ For some reason I feel like I am trespassing on hallowed ground, as if some quiet part of my soul has detached itself and slipped out into realms of the sacred without my knowing. My chest clenches painfully.

"_He has your eyes..."_


End file.
